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COVER  DESIGN 
3  SIMPLY  SUGAR-PIE 
15  THE  SAINTS  OF  SAN  ATOLL 
22  THE  SON 
25  THE  BONFIRE 

29  CAGED 

30  FLOTSAM 

32  NIGHT  AND  THE  MADMAN 

34  THE  CHILD  OF  GOD 

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Romain  Rolland 


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Peter  Minuit 
James  Oppenheim 
Waldo  Frank 
Louis  Untermeyer 
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The  Bonfire 


By  Robert  Frost 

'' y^^  H  let's  go  up  the  hill  and  scare  ourselves, 
\^^    As  reckless  as  the  best  of  them  tonight, 
By  setting  fire  to  all  the  brush  we  piled 
With  pitchy  hands  to  wait  for  rain  or  snow. 
Oh  let's  not  wait  for  rain  to  make  it  safe. 
The  pile  is  ours:  we  dragged  it  bough  on  bough 
Down  dark  converging  paths  between  the  pines. 
Let's  not  care  what  we  do  with  it  tonight. 
Divide  it?  No!    But  burn  it  as  one  pile 
The  way  we  piled  it.    And  let's  be  the  talk 
Of  people  brought  to  windows  by  a  light 
Thrown  from  somewhere  upon  their  wall-paper. 
Rouse  them  all,  both  the  free  and  not  so  free 
With  saying  what  they'd  like  to  do  to  us 
For  what  they'd  better  wait  till  we  have  done. 
Let's  all  but  bring  to  life  this  old  volcano, 
If  that  is  what  the  mountain  ever  was — 
And  scare  ourselves.    Let  wild  fire  loose 
We  will     ..." 

"And  scare  you  too?"  the  children  said. 

"Why  wouldn't  it  scare  me  to  have  a  fire 
Begin  in  smudge  with  ropy  smoke  and  know 
That  still,  if  I  repent,  I  may  recall  it. 
But  in  a  moment  not:  a  little  spurt 


[25] 


The    Bonfire 

Of  burning  fatness,  and  then  nothing  but 

The  fire  itself  can  put  it  out,  and  that 

By  burning  out,  and  before  it  burns  out 

It  will  have  roared  first  and  mixed  sparks  with  stars 

And  sweeping  round  it  with  a  flaming  sword, 

Made  the  dim  trees  stand  back  in  wider  circle — 

Done  so  much  and  I  know  not  how  much  more 

I  mean  it  shall  not  do  if  I  can  bind  it. 

Well  if  it  doesn't  with  its  draft  bring  on 

A  wind  to  blow  in  earnest  from  some  quarter. 

As  once  it  did  to  me  upon  an  April. 

The  breezes  were  so  spent  with  winter  blowing 

They  seemed  to  fail  the  bluebirds  under  them 

Short  of  the  perch  their  languid  flight  was  toward ; 

And  my  flame  made  a  pinnacle  to  heaven 

As  I  walked  once  round  it  in  possession. 

But  the  wind  out  of  doors — you  know  the  saying. 

There  came  a  gust.    You  used  to  think  the  trees 

Made  wind  by  fanning  since  you  never  knew 

It  blow  but  that  you  saw  the  trees  in  motion. 

Something  or  someone  watching  made  that  gust. 

It  put  that  flame  tip-down  and  dabbed  the  grass 

Of  overwinter  with  the  least  tip-touch 

Your  tongue  gives  salt  or  sugar  in  your  hand. 

The  place  it  reached  to  blackened  instantly. 

The  black  was  all  there  was  by  daylight. 

That  and  the  merest  curl  of  cigarette  smoke — 

And  a  flame  slender  as  the  hepaticas, 

Blood-root,  and  violets  so  soon  to  be  now. 

But  the  black  spread  like  black  death  on  the  ground, 

And  I  think  the  sky  darkened  with  a  cloud 

Like  winter  and  evening  coming  on  together. 

There  were  enough  things  to  be  thought  of  then. 

,    [26]    ., 


Robert    Frost 

Where  the  field  stretches  toward  the  north 

And  setting  sun  to  Hyla  brook,  I  gave  it 

To  flames  without  twice  thinking,  where  it  verges 

Upon  the  road,  to  flames  too,  though  in  fear 

They  might  find  fuel  there,  in  withered  brake, 

Grass  its  full  length,  old  silver  golden-rod, 

And  alder  and  grape  vine  entanglement, 

To  leap  the  dusty  deadline.    For  my  own 

I  took  what  front  there  was  beside.    I  knelt 

And  thrust  hands  in  and  held  my  face  away. 

Fight  such  a  fire  by  rubbing  not  by  beating. 

A  board  is  the  best  weapon  if  you  have  it. 

I  had  my  coat.    And  oh,  I  knew,  I  knew. 

And  said  out  loud,  I  couldn't  bide  the  smother 

And  heat  so  close  in ;  but  the  thought  of  all 

The  woods  and  town  on  fire  by  me,  and  all 

The  town  turned  out  to  fight  for  me — that  held  me. 

I  trusted  the  brook  barrier,  but  feared 

The  road  would  fail ;  and  on  that  side  the  fire 

Rose  till  it  made  a  noise  of  crackling  wood — 

Of  something  more  than  tinder  grass  or  weed — 

That  brought  me  to  my  feet  to  hold  it  back 

By  leaning  back  myself,  as  if  the  reins 

Were  round  my  neck  and  I  was  at  the  plough. 

I  won.    But  I'm  sure  no  one  ever  spread 

Another  color  over  a  tenth  the  space 

That  I  spread  coal  black  over  in  the  time 

It  took  me.    Neighbors  coming  home  from  town 

Couldn't  believe  that  so  much  black  had  come  there 

While  they  had  backs  turned,  that  it  hadn't  been  there 

When  they  had  passed  an  hour  or  so  before 

Going  the  other  way  and  they  not  seen  it. 

They  looked  about  for  someone  to  have  done  it. 

But  there  was  no  one.    I  was  somewhere  wondering 

[27] 


The   Bonfire 

Where  all  my  weariness  had  gone  and  why 
I  walked  so  light  on  air  in  heavy  shoes 
In  spite  of  a  scorched  Fourth  of  July  feeling. 
Why  shouldn't  I  be  scared  remembering  that?" 

"If  it  scares  you,  what  will  it  do  to  us?" 

"Scare  you.    But  if  you  shrink  from  being  scared, 
What  would  you  say  to  war  if  it  should  come? 
That's  what  for  reasons  I  should  like  to  know — 
If  you  can  comfort  me  by  any  answer." 

"Oh,  but  war's  not  for  children — it's  for  men." 

"Now  we  are  digging  almost  down  to  China. 

My  dears,  my  dears,  you  thought  that — we  all  thought  it. 

So  your  mistake  was  ours.    Haven't  you  heard,  though, 

About  the  ships  where  war  has  found  them  out 

At  sea,  about  the  towns  where  war  has  come 

Through  opening  clouds  at  night  with  droning  speed 

Further  o'erhead  than  all  but  stars  and  angels, — 

And  children  in  the  ships  and  in  the  towns? 

Haven't  you  heard  what  we  have  lived  to  learn? 

Nothing  so  new — something  we  had  forgotten : 

War  is  for  everyone,  for  children  too. 

I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you,  and  I  mustn't. 

The  best  way  is  to  come  up  hill  with  me 

And  have  our  fire  and  laugh  and  be  afraid." 


[28] 


